


The House That Built Me

by Maloreiy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, S&R:CRW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 13:36:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12300225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maloreiy/pseuds/Maloreiy
Summary: Years after the war, Hermione returns to see the house—the home—she’d left behind.Overall Winner of Quills & Parchment's 'There's a Troll in the Dungeon' Halloween one-shot competition. Also winner of Judges' Favorite, Fan Favorite, Best Angst, Best Romance, and Best Tear-Jerker.





	The House That Built Me

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All canon character, plots, and situations from the Harry Potter series belong to JK Rowling. I am not profiting from this work.
> 
> Thank you to my beta-reader, LeanaM, and to my mentor, goldensnitch18, for their time and work on this story.
> 
> The title and the inspiration for the story are taken from the song "The House That Built Me" by Miranda Lambert.

The door is almost exactly as she remembers it.

It’s been repainted a slightly lighter shade of olive green, but she can still make out the grooves and scratches from when they’d tried to squeeze the new sofa through the doorway, and it had gotten stuck.

Her father was determined to get it through and so they’d huffed and puffed and pushed and pulled and twisted until it had surged in, scraping up the doorjamb and almost crushing her mother who had just managed to get out of the way before it dropped on the carpet. They’d piled on top of the super soft new cushions, then, laughing from the exertion and the adventure.

The memory shoots through her mind so vividly her hand shakes as she raises it to knock on the same door she used to burst through without a thought.

The pale pink curtains beside the door twitch as a curious woman’s face peers out. Wisps of her dark blonde hair stick up all around her head, and a cleaning rag is in her hand. Below her, a little girl’s face peeks between the pink fabric, excited about the presence of a stranger.

Hermione waves and tries for a smile, an attempt at appearing harmless. She must be convincing because she hears the click of the lock turning, and then the door cracks open. A shooing motion is no doubt for the little girl’s benefit, and the child dutifully scoots back before pressing forward again to look around the edge of her mother’s skirts.

“Can I help you?” the woman asks, polite but a little impatient. Her house-cleaning has just been interrupted.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you,” Hermione says soothingly. “My name is Hermione Granger. I used to live in this house.”

The woman’s brow furrows in thought, trying to recall the name of the previous owners. “Yes, the Grangers, of course.” It’s not clear if she actually remembers them. “And how is your family doing?” she asks politely.

Hermione feels the question like a sharp ache in her chest, but she keeps the smile firmly in place. “Oh, just lovely. They adore Australia. All that sunshine.”

The woman nods, looking past Hermione at the afternoon sun that is shining weakly in the autumn sky. It’s a rare day that the sunlight is bright enough to not only break through the clouds, but also the thick canopy of trees that line the street of detached homes. But today, the soft dappled light lands on the freshly fallen leaves, making the piles of bright oranges and reds seem to glow enticingly—a temptation to jump in that no child could resist. But the pronounced chill in the air surely can’t compare to the warmth of the beaches of Australia.

There is an expectant moment of silence while Hermione gathers her thoughts together to make her request. “I’m sure you must be wondering why I’m here. I really don’t mean to be a bother.” She knows how odd she must sound. “I grew up here, you see. And I was just in the area, so I thought I would stop in and see the house.”

She’s lying, of course. She’d been trying to talk herself out of coming here for days, but that morning she’d finally decided she had to come. Just to see. To know. The holiday makes it inconvenient for the family, she knows, but she can’t wait any longer. She feels an urgency, a fear she can’t explain, that it is already too late for her.

The woman doesn’t seem to understand, so Hermione adds hastily, “I won’t get in your way. I was just hoping I could walk around a little, perhaps see my old bedroom.”

The little girl seems thrilled at the prospect of a guest, but the woman shushes her.

“Annabelle!”

When she looks back at Hermione, she is hesitant, clearly unsure of whether to grant this stranger’s unusual request.

“I have so many memories here,” Hermione tells her. “Those handprints, here on the front steps, are mine. I used to have a swing on the oak tree in the back garden. My bedroom was the one with the small round window upstairs.”

“That’s my bedroom, mum!” the little girl exclaims.

Hermione doesn’t look at her, intent instead on the woman who seems unconvinced and who can break her heart with a simple ‘No.’

“I—I promise I won’t take anything.” Hermione’s voice cracks, a tiny bit of her desperation leaking through. “It’s just—when I left I wasn’t—and things have been so difficult lately. I thought I’d moved on. I’ve done my best, but I just can’t remember. . . things. About myself. About my life. And I thought that maybe if I could just come back, touch this house, I could feel it again. I’ve been so—” Her throat closes up on the word _lost_ and she feels tears spring to her eyes.

She’s been so _lost_ , but it has nothing to do with this frazzled woman and this bright-eyed child, just because they happen to live here in her old house.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, blinking rapidly, not sure what she’s apologizing for or who she’s apologizing to.

The woman must see something she recognizes because she pushes the door open. “Of course, child, come in.”

As Hermione steps over the threshold, feeling a wave almost like magic pass over her, the woman smiles and says, “Welcome home, then.”

* * *

The woman’s name is Sarah, and she has to serve Hermione some tea first in the little kitchen that’s pristine clean. There is a new stove in the corner, and the cabinet doors have been replaced, but Hermione feels an echo of the comfort of sitting by the window with a warm beverage in her hand.

Sarah chatters gently about the changes they’ve made, how much they like the neighborhood, and how young Annabelle loves to play outside with the other children. She gives Hermione time to get composed and then excuses herself to finish vacuuming the parlor. They’re having a Halloween party tonight, and she has a lot to do. But she’s happy to let Hermione roam, and just be sure to send Annabelle back to her if she’s any trouble.

Hermione thanks her and sets her empty teacup back on the saucer. She looks over at the child who is sitting on the stool beside her, and Annabelle’s face lights up.

“D’you wanna see my costume?” she asks, excitedly.

Hermione smiles, remembering what it was like to wait impatiently for the moment her parents told her she could don the outfit that had been carefully pressed and hanging in her closet for days or weeks.

The first Halloween she really remembers, she was dressed as a dentist. She had a cute little white doctor’s coat and a light that strapped onto her head that really worked. Her parents just loved that it was _her_ idea. She never told them that it was mostly because she didn’t want to dress up as Toothy the Happy Tooth again.

There is a picture on her desk at work of the three of them standing in front of the fireplace, all dressed as dentists. Mr Bear-Bear was wearing the Toothy costume, and Hermione was holding him by his fluffy paws. Dr and Dr Granger were laughing in their own white coats and brandishing tools that Hermione had made out of cardboard after she’d carefully spent a day with them at the office observing all the metal and plastic pieces on their trays.

Harry laughs whenever he sees it. Ron always looks at it confused, no matter how many times Hermione tries to explain it to him.

She holds her hand out to Annabelle and lets herself be dragged up the wooden staircase.

Annabelle rambles excitedly about sparkles and glitter, and Hermione’s gaze glides over the polished banister remembering the unsettling feeling of slipping right off and falling over the edge.

That had been a different Halloween. She’d been Mary Poppins that year. She’d just finished reading all eight books, a feat her proud parents had rewarded by getting her her very own carpetbag. Hermione would stuff it full of books and papers until it was so full she could hardly lift it. Then she’d unpack it in front of her parents, pulling out item after item while her parents oohed and aahed, pretending to be amazed at how many things had fit inside.

It only went to follow that she would dress up as her idol for Halloween. And when Hermione had strapped on her sensible black heels, done up the buttons of her bright blue dress, and perched that jaunty hat with the little flowers right on top of her head, she’d felt so powerful―like she could do absolutely anything.

So, she’d tried to slide down the bannister. Obviously, sliding _up_ would have been the proper thing to do, but Hermione wasn’t silly enough, even then, to think she’d actually manage that. So she slid down instead. And promptly fell over backwards.

The world had seemed to spin around her, and she’d screamed, reaching out in her panic for anything to break her fall.

Her parents had come running, scared half to death, to find her lying shell-shocked in a pile of couch cushions and pillows.

They’d assumed she’d done it on purpose, that she’d gathered all those pillows and set them up so she could fall into them. She’d had a stern talking-to and was forced to put all the cushions away immediately, and to promise to never try to slide down the bannister again. She’d promised hastily, looking over the pillows in confusion, knowing without a doubt that they hadn’t been there a few moments ago. And she’d never told them that there had been an extra pillow when she was done. It was grey and black and had umbrellas all over it. She hid it in her room, under her blankets, where her parents would never see it and ask her about it.

She can laugh at it now, and she does as she finishes climbing the stairs up to her old bedroom—to Annabelle’s bedroom.

The roof slopes down into the room in a charming fashion, the perfect place to set up a little bed, right next to that round window that faces the morning sunlight. She’d used to love having the sunlight wake her up first thing in the morning, when the world was bright and clear and the birds were chirping. She wonders if Annabelle likes it, too. Seeing as how the window doesn’t have any curtains over it, she assumes so.

Everything else is different in the room. The walls are the wrong colors—pinks and whites, where Hermione had always preferred soft blues and purples. In the corner are toys and dolls of a completely different generation. There is no desk, and Hermione frowns slightly at the idea of a bedroom with no desk. Where is a girl supposed to write and draw? Make plans? Make lists?

She’s relieved to see at least a small bookshelf, and her fingertips itch to pull the slim children’s books out and check the titles to see if they are books she recognizes and loves. Perhaps Annabelle’s parents read the same things to her that her own had.

The little girl is trying to get her attention, pointing frantically at the costume hanging on the door of her wardrobe.

It’s green and sparkly with layers and layers of chiffon covered in glitter and rhinestones. And it appears to have a tail. It takes Hermione a second to realize it’s a mermaid costume. It’s so unlike an actual mermaid, but of course, Annabelle doesn’t know that.

She makes the appropriate exclamations and kindly stops her from putting it on to show her, reminding her that Mummy said not to wear it till it was time for the party.

She wanders over to the window and takes in the sight of the old oak tree. There’s another swing on it, a fancy looking thing. She thinks for a minute she can see the image of a little girl with bushy brown curls streaming out behind her as she swings so high her toes seem to block out the sun.

The tears prick behind her eyes again. She misses that little girl. She doesn’t know where she went.

* * *

She remembers when she turned eleven and discovered she was a witch. She’d raced right up here and sat in her room, surprised, ecstatic, almost unable to believe that it was real. She’d looked around at all her familiar surroundings, and was so excited to leave for Hogwarts she felt like packing right at that very minute.

To her chagrin, she wouldn’t be leaving for almost an entire year. She’d always enjoyed being older than most of her classmates. For the first time, she rued the fact that being born in September meant she’d missed the cut-off to start Hogwarts that autumn.

She’d wavered endlessly between tears that her new life couldn’t start soon enough, and excitement that there was a whole new world just waiting for her to join it.

She’d been so naïve. So optimistic. So hopeful. So sure that everything was going to be wonderful, that she would finally, _finally_ , have a place for her to belong.

That Halloween, her last one with her parents, she’d dressed as a witch. Not the kind with the hooked nose and the warts and the green skin. No, she’d worn an old-fashioned dress, like the kind that professor wore, the one that had come to bring her the news of Hogwarts. She added a cloak and a silver brooch at her throat. Her hair was twisted up in a bun, a pair of lens-less spectacles sat on her nose. And she made herself a wand out of a tree twig and copious amounts of glitter glue. Then she carried it stuffed up her sleeve.

When someone asked what she was, she replied that she was a witch. When they looked doubtful, she loftily said that they look like everyone else, of course. Then she’d brandish the wand, and everyone would nod and agree that yes, indeed, she looked just like a witch.

She spent all her days studying. Her homework for school was done in a flash, and then she’d spend hours reading through the huge texts that Professor McGonagall was kind enough to send her.

There was so much to learn! She was so behind. Those other children had grown up knowing magic their whole lives, and she only had the one year to catch up to them.

She was grateful, after all, that she had the extra time to prepare herself. Imagine if she’d only found out in July—or, heaven forbid, August—and was suddenly thrust into a completely foreign culture! She’d probably die of embarrassment from not knowing what was going on.

* * *

Annabelle has climbed up onto the bed to peer out the window and see whatever Hermione is looking at.

“This was your room, too?” she asks, jumping on the mattress and breaking Hermione out of her reverie.

Hermione smiles and nods, the pink and white room around her swimming back into focus. “Yes, this is where I did all my homework, and read my books, and played pretend.”

Around her, ghostly images flit by of the little girl with bushy hair playing, reading…talking to herself.

The loneliness of it threatens to overwhelm her. She’d always been such a lonely child.

Is it sad then when she thinks of her childhood, when she thinks of the things that made and shaped her, she doesn’t think of playing with the neighbor kids up the street, or performing in the school concert, or sleepovers and games? Other children might.

No, she thinks of a house. Her parents. . . and a house. Two people who guided her into the woman she became, and the house that sheltered her as she grew.

The floorboards that soaked up all of her tears those summers she came home and cried about how even that beautiful new world of magic was somehow hostile to her.

The bricks she practiced her wards on, infusing them with protective spells as she stayed up late at night wondering if Voldemort would find her here—find her parents and kill them, casualties of a war they didn’t even know about.

Now her parents are gone. And all that’s left is a house. A house that belongs to someone else, leaving her. . .leaving her where?

The tears come then, hot and wet, streaming down her cheeks.

Annabelle looks at her with sad eyes, confused, and Hermione doesn’t look but she can hear the pitter patter of little feet as they go down the stairs.

She sits on the floor, her back up against those sturdy bricks. The tears are flooding out now, her breath coming in short gasps, before she finally stops trying to hold it back and lets loose one last fall of rain on those familiar floorboards.

Who is she now?

What’s left for her?

She’d done her best. She’d saved them. She’d saved everyone she could.

But inside of her cries a little girl who knows this isn’t the world she wanted. This isn’t the world she thought she was getting. She isn’t the _person_ she’d wanted to be.

She is broken. And she is so ashamed of it. She’s not strong like the girl her parents had raised. She’s not steadfast like the girl her house had built.

There’s the sound of heavier footsteps on the stairs, and Hermione looks up to see Sarah’s concerned face.

She tries to speak, to get up and apologize again, but her throat won’t make any other sounds.

Sarah kneels beside her and gathers her into her arms.

Hermione tries to refuse, but it feels too good to be held by a mother’s embrace, even if it’s not her own mother. Even knowing her mother will never hold her again.

The tears come harder now, and Sarah pats her back, murmuring little 'There, there's.

“I thought—I thought if I came back,” she sobs onto the shoulder of the stranger who lives in her house. “I thought if I could just touch this house. . .”

Her thought lies unfinished, swallowed up in the tears.

Behind Sarah, Annabelle is crying, clutching a stuffed whale and holding out what looks like a seal to Hermione.

After several moments, Hermione finally takes it, looking down into its silly plush face, not knowing what she’s supposed to do with it.

They are quiet while Hermione’s breathing comes under her control again.

“Th-thank you,” she stammers, too exhausted in her mind to feel embarrassed about the wet stains all over Sarah’s blouse.

Sarah’s face is full of kindness as she looks at her. After a moment, she says, “They say you can’t go home again.”

Hermione laughs at this trite saying, beginning to think how silly she must look, crying on the floor of her childhood bedroom. Crying for her past and for the future she’d wanted and never gotten.

Sarah continues, “But we _can_ move forward.”

* * *

After she freshens up in the bathroom, Hermione offers the little seal back to Annabelle; it was part of the girl’s costume, after all.

But Annabelle tells her she can keep it. Because they are _room sisters_ , you see. And Swimmy wants an adventure with a new home and a new life.

So Hermione puts the little animal under her arm.

When Sarah’s back is turned, she transfigures some paper into a plush otter, right before Annabelle’s amazed eyes. She puts the otter on the bed, with a finger to her lips telling her to keep silent, and Annabelle nods in agreement.

They walk her to the door, and Hermione turns to say goodbye, the nostalgia threatening to overwhelm her again as she thinks of the last time she’d left this house and everyone in it behind. Feeling that same uncertainty of walking back out into the unknown.

Annabelle gives her a hug, and so does Sarah.

“You’re welcome here anytime, Miss Granger,” Sarah says. “But don’t _come back_ again.”

Hermione smiles sadly at the advice, knowing she was right; you really can’t go back.

* * *

As she walks down the steps, past her handprints, she turns to give a last wave to the family peering through the window of their home to watch her leave. _Their_ home, not hers, she emphasizes to herself, feeling the truth of it settling deep inside of her bones.

She doesn’t know why she thought anything would change by coming here. But she’d been desperate, clinging to this idea that that there’d be something left here. Something of her parents, something of _her_ , something of her hopes and dreams. . .

But there had been nothing. Nothing to relieve the constant sensation that she’s drowning, gasping for breath, unable to find the surface.

A tear snakes down her face, and she quickly dashes it away. She can feel it, that indefinable thing that has been plaguing her, threatening to rise up again and overwhelm her. Sometimes she gives in, like she had just moments ago in the safety of her childhood fortress. But this time she determinedly pushes it away, knowing that though Sarah and Annabelle may not be looking, she is still not alone.

Across the street, there is a man leaning back against a tree. Tall and slim, his stillness is reminiscent of a snake waiting in the grass. His hands are thrust into the pockets of jeans that are faded and old, not as if they had been well-worn and much-used, but as if someone had spent a lot of money making them seem so. He is looking down at the ground, the platinum hair that covers his eyes allowing him to pretend he is not watching her as she crosses the road.

She wipes at her eye again, as if clearing away any wetness could wipe away the tell-tale signs. She slows down until she comes to a stop in front of him, and he finally looks up at her, his steely-grey eyes piercing.

Ignoring the question he hasn’t asked, she looks down at the ground, at the patch of grass that had presumably been occupying his attention for the past forty minutes.

“Sorry to make you wait so long.”

He’d offered to go with her, but she’d needed the time alone. Well, alone except for the strangers that now live in her house. _Their_ house, she reminds herself again. It will never be her house again.

“This is probably the most time you’ve spent in the Muggle world. We should get you back before you melt or something.”

He’s looking at her, at the hunch of her shoulders, at the way she holds herself, and no doubt at her red, puffy eyes. But she doesn’t say anything else.

When he speaks, it’s as if he’d been carefully planning his words while he’d been standing out there, staring at a modest house in Norwich. “There is something to be said for this world.”

He must know his casual tone has piqued her interest. She tilts her head a little, observing him.

He shrugs. “It produced you, after all.” The breath he takes after that seems sharp compared to the seemingly innocuous sentiments. “Whereas the Wizarding World produced me.”

The rest of the words are unsaid, though she hears them, anyway. She knows the way he’s struggled with the shame and the guilt that have plagued him since the war. She knows he has been searching for his place in this new world, the same as she has been.

The same recriminations she has heaped upon herself seem harsh and unfair when echoed by him. Something inside of her wants to deny his words, wants to soothe.

It’s how it always is with them. She’s the first to blame herself for a failure, and he’s the first to angrily protest. He’s quick to dismiss as inadequate his own achievements and progress, and she’s quick to defend his integrity and worth.

Forgiveness is multi-faceted. Somehow they always find it easier to forgive each other than to forgive themselves.

“I guess we are both very lucky, then,” she says slowly, the words gradually forming in her mouth, “that we are each more than just the product of the world we were born into."

The words hang in the air, and something. . . something inside of her. . . untwists a bit, just enough so she can _breathe_. She notices how his features soften as he looks at her, and her stomach does its usual flip at his expression.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he finally asks, his voice breaking the stillness once more, as he pushes off from the tree to stand upright. He holds his hand out to her as he steps off the grass to begin walking down the leaf-strewn sidewalk, and she takes it without thinking, a familiar habit.

She always likes the way her hand feels in his, as if it belongs there. As if she belongs there with him. For a moment she doesn’t move, she just looks at their hands entwined together, a feeling welling up inside of her that seems simple and yet profound in its simplicity.

They stare at each other, silently, and she’s suddenly grateful for so many things—the house that built her, the war that broke her, and the man, she’s just now realizing, who had saved her.

He’s looking at her again, and she marvels at the steadiness and the patience she sees in his gaze. He’s waiting on her. Has he always been waiting on her?

She remembers that he’s asked a question.

She opens her mouth, unsurprised when the word that comes out is, “Yes.”

He nods, waiting to see if she wants to walk, or if she’s going to elaborate.

She doesn’t move, still watching him. She _has_ found it, that thing she’s been missing. For too long, she’s felt like a ship without an anchor, loose in the wind, wandering aimlessly. It was too much to hope that she’d find the answer here in her childhood home, and with each passing memory she’d realized what she wanted wasn’t there.

“I mean, yes,” she says again, squeezing his hand, knowing it was the truth. “Yes, I found it. But also. . . just. . . yes.”

It takes him a moment, but she sees when he gets it. The glint in his eye brings a smile to her face, but he doesn’t smile back at her.

For a long moment, he stares at her, his face completely expressionless, and she wonders how she could have possibly said the wrong thing.  

Then, he drops her hand, and instead pulls her into his arms. Gently, he places his head on top of hers, and he says in a low voice against her hair, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry this trip didn’t give you what you wanted.”

He thinks she is lying. Because he had to have seen the disappointment on her face when she’d walked out of the house. But he doesn’t know that she’s figured out that what she wanted wasn’t in the house at all.

It had been standing right outside.

He runs a hand comfortingly down her hair, and he adds, “But don’t. . . don’t give me an answer right now when you’re feeling lost and emotional. It’s not fair to either of us.” He pauses, and then whispers, “I’m not going anywhere.”

She turns her face into his chest, feeling the tears welling once more in her eyes.

He pulls her tighter against him, thinking to give her comfort.

But she doesn’t need it. Because she’s never been more certain of having made the right decision. She takes in the feel of him, the warm scent of his cologne, the way the bright oranges and reds of this Halloween day are suddenly sharper and more vivid.

She isn’t lost, she’s found.

She looks up at him with watery eyes. “The answer is yes, Draco. I’m sure.”

His eyes are deep and dark as he looks at her, and very seriously he says, “Then it’ll be yes tomorrow.” He moves a lock of hair out of her face so he can bend down and briefly touch his lips to hers. “Tell me again tomorrow.” The words are not quite a plea.

She pulls back and grins up at him, feeling incredibly light where just earlier she’d felt so incredibly heavy. Taking his hand, she leads him towards the Apparition point. “Tomorrow is Samhain. Maybe you should ask me again tomorrow.”

He rolls his eyes in feigned exasperation as he walks beside her, but she sees the quirk of his lips. “Humiliating myself twice wasn’t enough for you?”

She just keeps grinning at him. She knows he’ll ask her again tomorrow. And she knows she’s finally ready to say yes, and they can both begin a new life where they can stop trying to find where they belong. . . and simply belong to each other.

As they round the corner, she takes a last look at the house that built her. It stands the same in the fading sunlight as it always had in her memories.

But she is not the same.

For the first time in a long time, that thought does not fill her with sadness and anxiety.

Turning, she says to the man who rebuilt her, “Let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> S&R Movement: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)


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